To Grandmother’s house we’ll go

Dear Caitlin, Robin, and Brenna:

The news from home is too surreal to comprehend. Though the global pandemic finally reached us in Afghanistan — compelling a whole series of base quarantines and countermeasures — what my unit now confronts is nothing like the havoc you’re enduring. We’ve no emptied supermarket aisles, no forced school and business closures, no social and economic hardships beyond the order to thoroughly wash our hands and vigilantly police the gates. 

I’m publishing this letter to you three here in The Enterprise because its readers are our extended family. You may be my sisters, but they are our neighbors. They’ve lived and loved the same sunsets, seasons, and back-country roads that we have; they’re the ones to whom we’ve turned time and again, who’ve always supported our family’s businesses, and who genuinely care what happens to us.  But while I want Enterprise readers to have situational awareness of this letter, it’s not for them — for they’re already in Albany County. This is a letter about facilitating safe passage back home.

I can’t imagine how stressed and anxious you feel; I’m sure it’s cold comfort to note that a microscopic parasite has finally united all of humanity in a worldwide shared experience. It’s a curious circumstance: Closer than ever, yet still keeping six feet away.

But the good news is that this will not be the crisis that ends it all, the one that changes everything, that tears our way of life asunder and rips everyone we love from our arms. Yes, life is still to get a lot harder for a while, and the virus will leave terrible loss in its wake. But like all things, COVID-19 will pass. And though much will be different, much will be the same: Schools and businesses will reopen, public spaces will come alive, a sense of normalcy will return, and we’ll find society right where we left it.     

Still, now’s as good a time as any to plan for “The Big One.” Whether it’s a solar storm that fries the electric grid, or an EMP blast that annihilates our communications networks, or those first hours after the machines gain consciousness, or an asteroid that darkens the sky with Earth’s own mantle, or a mutated descendent of today’s coronavirus that spreads even faster and more lethally through the species, your shared and exclusive imperative remains the same:  

Come home.

So let’s get to it. First, don’t bother stockpiling; leave those taller-order preparations to Albany.  There’s no point in amassing supplies you’ll ultimately abandon, and I promise you’ll have access to all the most critical things if you can just make it back home. For now, you need assemble only the items I beseech you to pack in your ready-to-go rucksacks, along with whatever your vehicle can fit.  That said, don’t plan on being lucky enough to drive all the way from origin to destination ….

Second, invest in two sets of printed roadmaps (you’ll want the backup). Your map set should consist of however many state editions are required to pilot you and your babies to Albany County. While two maps are sufficient to navigate from Massachusetts, a start point in California will require several. And though your trip will demand these resources only once, be sure to familiarize yourselves with the technology they contain in advance. 

Once every four months, travel an unfamiliar route using nothing but a roadmap to guide you. Put down your phone, turn off the GPS; these may not be available to you when the journey home becomes necessary. If you leave soon enough after The Big One, you’ll still have road signs to guide you. But take the time now to learn to dead reckon, following the contours of the road and recognizing terrain features. 

With your significant others, spend a quiet quarantined evening plotting a few routes back to Albany.  Avoid the highways; they may look like the most direct route home, but you’ll want to dodge high-density routes where traffic jams afford no means of escape. In making your way to Albany, the family car will be your single most important source of transit and security, so plan ahead to steer clear of that which might compel you to abandon it. Identify now how many gallons of gas it’ll take you and your kids to make the drive, and then keep a few gas cans filled in the garage. Use and replace their contents every few months so the fuel doesn’t grow stale. If the last journey home becomes necessary, gas stations may not be available either.

Third, buy a couple quality compasses and some durable wristwatches. Invest in a multi-tool. Make sure you have at least one sturdy flathead and Phillips screwdriver apiece, since vehicle license plates bearing the names of the states through which you’ll pass will be valuable commodities if cohesion fractures and state authorities close down the borders. (I’m not saying this is likely to happen, so much as I’m saying that it already did.) 

I say again: Long-term preparations exist at your destination — your supplies need only support your movement home. And on that note, there’s a common misconception that what separates us from animals is humanity’s capacity for speech. Of course that’s nonsense, and a blindness to the means by which our sentient furry counterparts communicate. But there is one thing that truly does make us distinct: toilet paper. We’re feral beasts without it.

So fine, go ahead and stock up on some portably-encased toilet paper. But don’t overdo it.  Throughout countless field-training rotations and deployments, I’ve come to learn — to my once abject horror — that toilet paper is an unnecessary luxury which takes up too much space in your rucksack. When The Big One comes, we’ll learn that we, too, are animals — as I’ve been repeatedly reminded when the basic hygiene of spartan environments has been reduced to leaves and the chance puddles I encounter. It was in those vulnerable and exposed moments that introspection revealed the only thing that really matters: family. So come home. In return, I promise to have toilet paper in Albany.

Fourth, if you must ditch the car, make sure you have sunscreen. Have comfortable hiking boots and an extra pair of shoes. You’ll want hand sanitizer and facemasks (in case that’s what The Big One dictates), baby wipes for dry-bathing, several lighters, and a couple canteens or water bottles. But since water is heavy, you’ll also need a portable filtration system. Know where the rivers and streams are; your state maps will contain the most obvious water routes, and you’ll want to handrail them as long as you can. 

Water will always be your most critical concern, and one you need to anticipate in all its forms and functions. For example, if the bridges are overtaken or guarded by whomever moves to occupy them, you’d better have two inflatable rafts (and a hand pump) strapped to your roof-rack for night passage across the river — one raft for you and your little ones, the other for the rucksacks and whatever else you can carry. (Bring a set of inflatable arm-floaties for each tyke, too, just in case.) And: Pack ponchos or a tarp, for rain will quickly illustrate how fickle a god is water.

Fifth, carry some cash for use in the few lingering days before people realize it never really had any value. Bring one first-aid kit for each member of your family. Extra socks. Prescriptions. Jackets.  Anti-chafing ointment. Knives. Sunglasses, since looking stylish will always be paramount no matter what crisis befalls us. Flashlights and batteries. Toothbrush and paste. Energy chews for mom and dad, candy for the kids. IBUPROFEN. It’s my firmest hope that you’ll recognize The Big One in time to drive the whole way back to Albany, but I want to make sure you’re equipped for worst-case scenarios, to best leverage the persevering tenacity I’ve always associated with each of you. 

Beyond that, you’re probably good. Matches and candles and soap and medicine, canned vittles, meals-ready-to-eat, potable water, pen-and-paper, seeds and shoes and clothes and tools and toys —  leave these to me. Leave to me the installation of renewable energy sources — microturbines and solar panels — and water purification and sustainable sanitation. These are the purview of a big brother and uncle, I guess. You need only equip yourselves for the journey back home. Bring my nieces and nephews safely back to where they belong, in Albany.  Return to the farmhouse in which we grew up, where we’ll regroup, reset, and reestablish networks with the friends and neighbors who molded us into the people we’ve become.

Sure, the winters are cold in Albany. But as any Russian will tell you, there exist few strategic defenses more effective than snow and ice. With the escarpment to our west, the Hudson to our east, and railroad tracks leading to communities beyond our county borders, we’re both protected and connected in Albany. Albany isn’t a last stand — Albany is the first step. 

Besides, Moo Moo and Pop Pop’s house has lots of books — more than I’ve ever read, more than most ever will. If the web goes dark and the grid can’t support computing, your children will still be able to get a world-class education from those dusty old books that served primarily as decoration for most of their existence. And in their waning years, can you imagine a wisdom more powerful than that which mum and dad yet have to offer? Best of all, when they get to be too senile, you needn’t worry: I’ll make sure we’re equipped with plenty of alcohol, so we can drink together until they make sense again.

On the day the world stands still and the phones go silent, I will begin my count. At 90 days, I’ll come find you. So don’t delay; there’ll be lots of things to attend to at the farm, and I’d rather not chase after you because you were dawdling (Brenna). If the time arrives, you’ll know it. Be ready. 

On that note — sixth — be sure to bring spare batteries to power your radio. I’ll give you the frequency and, every hour on the hour, discipline yourselves to conduct a five-minute comms check.  If you stay within 20 miles to the north and south of your latitudinal route, I will find you. I promise. 

But first — I need to get back from overseas, where I’ve seen firsthand how fragile a society can be.  This deployment has clarified my role as your brother, and as the uncle of your children. The arrangement I propose is simple: You bring your families to Albany; I’ll do my best to protect them.  And if The Big One never comes: Good! We’ll have plenty of dried food at family Thanksgivings henceforth.   

I love you, beautiful sisters. Never forget that Albany will be here to receive you when it’s time to rebuild. Only Albany. Always Albany. Where it’s easy to love the people who will join us in gazing out upon a different world. Where home will always be home. 

By car or by foot, over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we’ll go. 

Editor's note: Captain Jesse Sommer is a lifelong resident of Albany County, currently deployed to Afghanistan with the U.S. Army’s 7th Special Forces Group (Airborne).  He welcomes your thoughts at .